A Curious Affair

by Melanie Jackson

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Working someone else’s mine—if it was abandoned. After all, cold weather wouldn’t matter to Irv if he were underground.” It wouldn’t matter in a green house either, I could hear Tyler thinking. I glanced back to see if he was interested in my trial balloon, or if he was going to shoot it down before I got it aloft. “What if Irv was prospecting for gold near someone else’s marijuana patch? Or near someone’s meth lab, since you seem sure that there’s one about?”

  “There is one about. And that might be reason enough to kill someone,” Tyler admitted. “But why not kill him on-site? Why follow him home and do it there—assuming that’s what happened?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “Maybe so it would look like an accident. Or maybe Irv gave them the slip in the woods and they had to track him down later.” The deer trail we followed disappeared in a clearing and I hesitated. I recalled this place from last autumn. Wild grapes had rampaged up the trees all summer and they made a glorious red bower when the leaves turned in the fall. But those leaves were gone now and the vines torn down. Wind and snow had done their brutal work on all the growing things. The snowy glade was strewn with denuded limbs, stripped bare and then broken from their woody torsos. The trunks were also clean of moss and lichen and even much of their bark. They hadn’t so much as a fig leaf to hide their nakedness from what remained of the cruel winter. The sight was depressing and confusing without the familiar markers.

  I jammed my free hand in my coat pocket. I had gloves but they had gotten wet so many times that winter the leather had lost its suppleness. Having no clear direction to follow, I turned to the right. The land to the left was very stony, and straight ahead was a sheer cliff and then the river. “I just know that prospecting is more in line with what Irv would do than manufacturing drugs. And there is every bit as much money in it—and maybe more.”

  “Really? Okay. You knew Irv better than I did, so I’m willing to work with this theory.” He wasn’t discounting other ones, though. And neither was I—not completely. But I preferred that this be about gold than about marijuana, or God forbid, methamphetamines. I didn’t want the threat of drug killings as well as noise pollution to impinge on my safe little world.

  “You know, you’re showing me a side of Irving Thibodaux that I never knew. I feel a bit unobservant,” the sheriff said.

  “Don’t. Irv was an acquired taste, and he didn’t make friends easily. It took a long time for me to train my palate to accept him. And I haven’t been dwelling on his less attractive points, of which there were many.”

  There was no noise to warn me, but I was suddenly aware of intense, nonhuman scrutiny. I tried to ignore it since Tyler was there and I was doing my best to be normal, but it grew ever stronger, and after a few more steps I stopped and looked to my right, where the baleful glare was coming from.

  Tyler stopped too and began to look around. It took him a moment longer to spot what I knew was there.

  “Is that…?”

  “Yes. Just stay still.” It took an effort to say this, because my jaw had tightened in the cold and because I was terrified.

  Are you the woman who talks to cats? That’s what I heard. Tyler was only aware of the low growl, and it had him reaching for his pistol. His posture switched from genial to deadly in less than a second.

  “No,” I said to the sheriff, touching his arm. I was shocked at being addressed by the wild cat, but also relieved. If the cat wanted to talk then it probably didn’t want to eat. At least not me.

  To the cat I said aloud: “Yes, kitty. What do you want on this fine morning?”

  The mountain lion sat down, looking a bit surprised at being answered, or perhaps at being called a kitty. Its posture was more relaxed than it had been. Tyler was still stiff with alarm, so I kept my hand on him.

  You’re looking for a smelly-butt man who kills his own kind? Its teeth were very large as the cat yawned. He picked up a paw and I swear examined his nails. His lips curled with distaste. The gesture was so human I almost laughed.

  Instead, I exhaled slowly. The word of Irv’s death might not have gotten out into the human population, but the feline grapevine was obviously fully functional. If this cat could help, I was willing to listen.

  “Yes, good kitty. That I am. What do you want me to know?” I could feel Tyler staring first at me, then at the cat, and then back to me again. I couldn’t blame him, really. None of the popular hiking guides at the tourist center suggested talking sweet kitten gibberish when confronted with an adult mountain lion. He didn’t try to interrupt, though, for which I was grateful.

  There are two smelly-butt men near the river in the man-cave. They kill many things and the water is undrinkable now. The cat stared over my left shoulder. A stray beam of sunlight struck his irises and made his eyes gleam gold. His head was huge, larger than mine. I would like it if you and sheep man made them go away.

  Sheep man? I glanced at Tyler and took in his coat. Sheepskin.

  “Pretty kitty,” I said, turning back, but I thought, Thank you! I’ll try. “We’re going now. It would be best if you stayed here while we go for our walk. Will you do that for me, kitty cat?”

  The cat chuffed and then turned away. In an instant he had disappeared into the trees, making no more sound than a shadow.

  “I’ll be damned,” Tyler said, and I finally dropped my hand. It had begun to shake. I was glad that my coffee had a lid.

  “Let’s hope not,” I answered, again holding the coffee cup against my cheek as I started off in the direction the cat indicated. My pace was brisk but the wind was brisker. There were still some patches of snow on the ground and tangled in the manzanita bushes, which slouched pettishly under the cold weight. They were beginning to moan as the currents of cold air passed through them. I wanted to moan, too—damn jaw. It was beginning to feel like some hard-rock miner with blasting caps was trying to blow up my face. Still, I had a lead and I was damned if I was going to ignore it. Especially not when I had the sheriff with me.

  “You know where we’re headed?” he asked.

  “Yes, I have my bearings now. We need to go down by the river. That’s where the mine is.” I debated how to explain the next thing I needed to tell him. Tyler didn’t seem up on his flora and fauna so I said casually, “There are probably men down there. At least two, and armed. Hunters maybe, but it could be your meth cookers. That’s what brought the cat up here. A mountain lion wouldn’t have come so close to town unless people had invaded his turf. And if it was just one man, the cat probably would have confronted him and driven him off.”

  I had no idea if this was true, but it sounded plausible. I hoped a city dweller would think so, too.

  “You’re a woman of unexpected talents,” Tyler said, and I thought he meant it as a compliment. “I would never have suspected you of being such an outdoors woman.”

  “Sheriff, you have no idea.”

  “That’s true. But I’ll figure you out eventually.” He said this cheerfully, but I sincerely hoped he was wrong. I didn’t want anyone figuring me out, at least not until I understood myself. Tyler added: “I’m betting most people don’t get past the surface layer of cute and cuddly, so they never notice the brain underneath. I think it’s those big, sad eyes. They’re real distracting.”

  My heart gave an odd kick. Cute and cuddly. That wasn’t as good as beautiful and exotic, but I’d take it even if it was a bit of a presumptuous thing to say to a near-stranger.

  “So what lured you to Irish Camp, Sheriff? You’re not exactly the standard salt of the earth yourself,” I said, changing the subject. The gossips in town had been silent on this point. My words weren’t as distinct as I would like, but he was getting better at understanding me.

  “The fishing.” Then he added: “Also a dead partner and a divorce that led me to feel that I wanted a life that held less violence and fewer inventive criminals. A man can only be used as a blunt instrument against the gangs for so long be
fore he starts to lose his humanity. I didn’t like what was happening to me.”

  “We haven’t got a lot of criminal masterminds up here,” I admitted. I was dying to ask for more personal details, but didn’t. I was nosy but not rude. He would have to volunteer the rest of his story, especially about his partner dying. “We do have some good fishing, though, if you like trout.”

  “I can’t wait for some better weather. Maybe you can show me some of the best spots.”

  Could I? Maybe. If I wasn’t living in a home for the seriously delusional by then.

  There wasn’t time for any more conversation, because we found one of the mountain lion’s smelly-butt men. He came staggering toward us, grumbling under his breath. He had a dog with him. And a gun.

  Some people are owned, or at least heavily defined, by their most trea sured possessions. Prada shoes make a certain statement. So do hats with earflaps. And, of course, so do Dobermans and a shotgun. The man also reeked of alcohol and worse. I learned that day just how bad a methamphetamine lab smells. Taken together, I read his character as mean, paranoid and irresponsible. And stupid. He actually threatened Tyler with the shotgun. I thought Tyler was going to wrap the thing around his neck. As it was, Tyler settled for taking the rifle away and then whacking him with it, never even breaking a sweat. Maybe after the gangs armed with automatic weapons, mere drunks with shotguns didn’t hold the power to terrify.

  I was shaken by the encounter, even though the confrontation was over in about ten seconds. I was suddenly very glad that Tyler was with me, though this guy was too wasted to be much of a threat and the dog wasn’t as mean as it looked, and wisely refrained from attacking either of us when his master was getting roughed up.

  Tyler played it cool and by the book, but I knew he was happy at this unexpected encounter. I shared his happiness, if to a lesser degree. A brief search of the man’s pockets showed us that we had found Tyler’s drug dealer—Arthur Kingsley, his license said—and maybe I had found Irv’s killer, though I would have preferred it if the man had been wearing a denim coat and large wafflestompers.

  We turned and hiked back to the parking lot where the sheriff’s Jeep was. I patted my leg and the dog tagged along behind us. I didn’t say anything, but studied Arthur Kingsley from the corner of my eye. He wasn’t a handsome specimen. All the features of his face were scrunched together in the middle, his upper lip almost touching the tip of his nose, his eyes resting on his cheekbones. This was because he was missing teeth. He looked a bit like headhunters had tried to shrink his head but given up after they finished the face. I wasn’t a dermatologist, but his flaccid skin looked like one giant precancerous lesion. Nature had hit this boy with the ugly stick. Twice. And then with the idiot stick to boot. Ugly and stupid—what chance did this guy have? It was probably a kindness to send him to jail before he killed himself.

  While Tyler was putting the verbally abusive but now rather subdued drunk into the cruiser, I stole a bandana that fell out of his prisoner’s pocket and slipped it into my own. Atherton would know if this was the right man. The dog I tied up to Tyler’s rear bumper, with a piece of rope, and then fetched him some water from Don’s place. I think the poor abused animal might have been trying to talk to me, but I couldn’t understand him. All I could do was pat his sable-colored head and murmur reassurances through clenched teeth that all would be well. I was certain that the shelter would take him since he was so gentle. I might have kept him for myself, but with all the strays that had attached themselves to me, I didn’t think it was the right time to introduce a canine into my home.

  I know Tyler wanted to tell me to be careful around the mutt. And he was right, of course. But that is one lesson I will probably never learn this side of the grave. Cal and I had this in common. We’d been bitten and scratched more than once while rescuing injured animals, but there you go. In some people, compassion wins over common sense every time.

  The sheriff’s cell phone worked fine, and for a wonder he was able to get a signal up on the hill. He ordered Farland Tulloc to find Dawg, and for both of them to head for Sublime immediately. I eavesdropped openly and could hear Farland’s usually phlegmatic voice growing animated as he understood that they were making a genuine drug bust. Maybe it was the bonus he would receive.

  Tyler and I had another cup of ghastly coffee while we waited for the deputies. I insisted that we remain outside with the dog even though my jaw was throbbing. I didn’t mention that this was because I had the feeling the mountain lion was close by and I didn’t trust it not to help itself to a doggie snack.

  Tyler kindly refrained from conversation. I found the silence companionable, even though Tyler spent a lot of time staring at me and the dog with an expression I can only call speculative.

  He was probably thinking that I shouldn’t be allowed along on their search for the meth lab. Not technically. But I knew the area, and I could tell that Tyler was by now half-convinced that I was some kind of super nature guide—which I was, but not because I had ever earned my Girl Scout merit badge. Thanks to the mountain lion, I was the only one who knew—more or less—where the men had been staying, and everyone agreed it would save time if I showed them the way to the mine. The sheriff might have had a procedural qualm or two about including a civilian on a raid, but Dawg and Farland knew Cal’s widow and they wouldn’t raise any objections to having the search time shortened and getting off the mountain before it rained.

  It turns out they could have managed without me. The smell from the old mine shaft was abundant and horrible and all too easy to find. As labs went, it was small and unimpressive. Still, it was a ser vice to the community to shut it down. Methamphetamines are killing America and every battle won is a triumph for our health and life.

  The other man mentioned by the mountain lion was missing from camp, but that there were two of them was not in doubt. I had no way of knowing which bedroll was his, so I took dirty socks from the piles of clothes on both sleeping bags. Everyone else was so busy taking pictures and bagging evidence at the back of the caved-in shaft that they didn’t notice what I was doing.

  The socks reeked, even above the smell of chemicals, but I added them to my coat pockets. Thank God I found no underwear because duty might have compelled me to take it and that would have just been too gross for my increasingly touchy stomach. I finally had to walk some distance away to escape the miasma of odors. It wasn’t just the chemicals used, either. The men had been hunting for their meals, and maybe because compounds they used to make their drugs had destroyed their ability to smell, they had taken to dumping the offal just outside the mine opening.

  I wasn’t too surprised to feel the mountain lion watching me when I stepped outside. I didn’t turn to face it in case Tyler was watching.

  “The other man isn’t here,” I murmured, knowing the cat would hear me.

  No, he left. He went in a man machine—a large dark one. The growl was soft.

  “We’ll keep looking for him,” I promised, and walked away. I didn’t want to be rude, but what I didn’t need was to encourage any thoughts of friendship this mountain lion might have been entertaining. A friendly tabby—even a bevy of strays—hanging about my house could be explained and even ignored by my neighbors; a mountain lion could not.

  My jaw had locked solid by the time the job was done, but I managed a smile and thumbs-up for Tyler when we started back for the parking lot, all of us burdened with trash bags stuffed with lab equipment and camping gear confiscated as evidence. Dawg had to carry the portable generator, which was really heavy, but he didn’t seem to mind, even though it was beginning to rain. He was talking excitedly about getting a haircut before being on the news. He had a terrible crush on Mary Jane Brighton, our local anchorwoman.

  I noticed that at no point did Tyler say anything to the deputies about finding Irv’s murderer. Maybe because he was being a thorough investigator and content to wait for forensic evidence before declaring Irv’s death a crime. Or maybe becaus
e he sensed that I hadn’t completely signed off on the idea that we had the right man.

  My footsteps slowed slightly as I thought about this. It occurred to me that maybe he still wasn’t sure that Irv had actually been murdered. I was getting ahead of myself in thinking he was convinced there had been a crime. Tyler might still believe it was an accident and just be humoring me while he waited for forensic evidence to come in.

  I tried not to feel deflated. It seemed likely we did have Irv’s killer. Irv could have easily stumbled on their operation while searching out the old gold mine, and the man we arrested was certainly violent enough to have killed someone while sober. But the fact that the cave-in at the site was an old one made me think that Irv wouldn’t have bothered with this place. He would be looking for something that a man could work alone—something reasonably safe. And someplace not so well known. Irv would have been watching for something new, some parting on the rock that broke open because of all the rain we’d been having. If I had been thinking, I would have gone looking for mudslides along the river where freshly disgorged nuggets might have slid down into the stream. That was a much more likely place for Irv to work than a mine or some coyote hole. All he’d need is a gold pan and maybe a sluice box.

  Also, now that I was watching the path, I noticed again that the tread on the drug dealer’s smallish hiking boots didn’t match the pattern or size of the ones I’d seen in Irv’s cabin. There were other stray prints as well, but they didn’t match the ones at Irv’s either. There was also the matter of the missing denim coat, though he might have thrown it away if he had gotten blood on it.

  Maybe the wafflestompers and coat belonged to the other man and he never came this way, I thought again, trying to be optimistic about the current state of affairs. And chances were good that he would be found soon. This was a small community and we knew everyone who lived there. The cats were diligently looking for him.